


The Purpose of Things

by Sp00py



Series: A Study in Snuffering [8]
Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson
Genre: Animal Abuse, Incest, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Cuddling, Other, Rape, Tags to be Added as Updated, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Tooth Trauma, Violence, collaring, mention of animal abuse, the mystery of snufkin’s genitals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-05-23 15:51:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sp00py/pseuds/Sp00py
Summary: Snufkin and the Joxter spend the autumn together.





	1. The Park

The Joxter lifted Snufkin so he could climb over the fence, then proceeded to follow,  graceless as a gangly cat. He landed in a crouch and almost toppled into Snufkin on the other side.

The grass here was shorn short and sad, dead due to autumn's cold grip but clearly mangled before all that, which mattered less to the Joxter than to Snufkin, whose nose wrinkled up at the crunchy feel of it. Grass and trees should grow however the sun and soil dictated, not clipped back and corralled. It gave Snufkin palpitations just thinking about it, and his paws itched to yank up the signs that littered the park and knock down fences and borders. The Joxter was just here for the fun. Something was going to happen, he could feel it in his whiskers.

They crept through the park, eyes gleaming in the darkness, alert for the movements of any Park Keepers, keeping off the bordered paths. Snufkin darted forward when he spotted his first sign, caught it in his paws, and used his momentum to fling it away. Another sign soon followed, from the Joxter, NO RUNNING clattering across the words NO LAUGHING.

Sign after sign was tossed or gathered up. They worked quickly, the Park Keeper none the wiser to his guests, until Snufkin came up sharp.

The Joxter ran right into him, and they both dropped their signs. He peeked over Snufkin’s shoulder.

“Are those dogs?”

“So it seems,” Snufkin muttered, crouching down so he could approach the collared animals. Two of them, ears clipped, teeth bared as growls issued forth.

“Leave them alone,” the Joxter whispered. “They look like guard dogs.”

“They’re _chained up_.”

Snufkin reached forward, cooing softly to the dogs in the hopes that they’d calm enough to talk. It was hard to tell with animals if they cared to say anything, and these dogs were skeletal and white-eyed. They wouldn't be saying much. He hated seeing them with collars around their necks and icy chains weighing them down.

“Get away from them.”

Snufkin ignored the Joxter and held out a paw while his other pulled out his knife. If he could just get close enough to cut their collars....

He was yanked back by his scarf, sending the dogs snapping and prancing in fear. Or they were going to do that anyway, and the Joxter had saved him -- it all happened so quickly, it was hard to tell which was which. Reflexively, Snufkin whipped around to attack whoever had grabbed him, only for his wrist to be arrested in a firm grip. The Joxter’s face was close, close enough for Snufkin to feel the gentle tickle of his whiskers.

They glared at each other before Snufkin looked away, an angry flush on his face. He did things a certain way, and the Joxter should realize that, not interfere.

When it was clear Snufkin wasn’t going to stab him or argue, the Joxter let go of him. Snufkin folded his knife and slipped it back into his boot. The Joxter’s grip had been surprisingly rough, and his wrist hurt.

Snufkin cast a glance back to the dogs, promising himself that he’d come back to them, without the Joxter. He didn’t like being harangued like this, but the path of least resistance was just to return to the sign pulling, if not as happily as he had before.

The Joxter watched Snufkin pull sign after sign sullenly, sourness radiating off of him. It put a damper on this whole endeavor, and it didn’t look like anyone else was going to show up to make things exciting. Those dogs hadn’t even barked. Even half mad animals seemed to like Snufkin, which the Joxter understood. He liked Snufkin, too, so he wanted to enjoy this outing _somehow_. Who knew when next he'd get the chance? But Snufkin was ruining it, like a moody little cloud. Fortunately, he had experience with little clouds.

The Joxter tapped out his pipe on a sign that forbade smoking and went through the whole ritual of refilling and lighting it. He puffed away thoughtfully as he gathered up signs Snufkin was chucking carelessly on the ground.

“If you just leave them, he’ll put them right back into place,” he muttered. Snufkin heard him, but did nothing more than glance back before returning to his hunt.

He didn’t see the first hit. It sent him sprawling. Snufkin pushed himself to his knees, a paw to his head. He felt blood on his temple, and confusion more than pain.

A sign shadowed his vision and knocked him back with a cry. Now he felt the pain as it bloomed on his face, and Snufkin clutched his crumpled nose. Why wasn't the Joxter _helping_ him? Had he bailed at the first sign of danger? That wouldn't surprise him, given what he knew of --

Another hit had him covering his head, leaving his paws and arms to take the brunt of the attacks. As soon as there was a lull, Snufkin tried to scramble away, sight blurry with tears of pain, but a heavy kick rolled him over. He curled in on himself and glared up at his attacker. His expression faltered.

“Joxter?” Snufkin asked breathlessly.

The Joxter pressed a foot to Snufkin’s chest when he tried to get up, shoving him back down hard enough that his head bounced on the ground. Snufkin hissed, face scrunched up.

“If you just leave them,” the Joxter repeated more slowly, a sign brushing dangerously close to Snufkin’s nose, back and forth like a pendulum swinging. “He’ll put them right back.”

Snufkin grabbed the sign and shoved it up, catching the Joxter right in the throat. He gagged and stumbled back. Snufkin wasn’t one to let anyone bully him like this, even if it was his father. Especially not his father. He should _know_ Snufkin knew how to do this.

Anger and upset did wonders to help Snufkin through the agony burning tracks down his face and circling his head. He shoved himself to his feet and, after but a moment’s hesitation, sprinted away.

The Joxter wasn’t about to run, especially not when his aim was perfectly fine. He glanced around for one of those smooth, even decorative border rocks and tossed it at Snufkin like he was knocking down a sour green apple. Snufkin dropped without a sound.

The Joxter slunk over to investigate. He rolled Snufkin over and checked his pulse. Just out cold, not dead. Even the Joxter was a little impressed with himself. He wouldn't have been too put off if it had killed him, accidents happened, but Snufkin could still be fun. His face was pale in parts, bloodied in others. The Joxter trailed two fingers across the wounds. There _was_ more than one way to enjoy a Snufkin, after all.

The dogs started to howl, and the Joxter’s head snapped up. Just beyond a red-leafed hedge was a Park Keeper, eyes wide in fright, paws squeezing tight around his flashlight like it was a shield. The Joxter’s initial shock gave way to an unimpressed frown.

“Did you see what happened?” he asked. The Park Keeper gave the barest nod. Snufkin groaned and twitched.

The Joxter knelt down and worked his arms under Snufkin, hefting him up and over his shoulder. He was small and light, as happened when one lived the sort of life he did. “Hup, pff,” he said as he walked brazenly past the Park Keeper, rubbing his throat. “Haven’t you any shame, sir? Watching a child get beaten and doing nothing?” Snufkin wasn’t _really_ a child, but he was small, and it sounded delightfully awful to say.

The Park Keeper sputtered and made as though to pull his courage out now, but the Joxter knew his type. He did nothing before; he’d do nothing now. And later he’ll pretend he saw nothing. The Joxter kept walking, right out of the park.

 

 

Snufkin woke up in an aching haze. At first he thought he’d been tossed into jail, and jerked upright, then immediately regretted that as he tasted blood and vertigo. What he’d taken for the shadows of bars were just branches in the morning sun. Everything hurt.

The Joxter lay a few feet away, either sleeping or ignoring Snufkin, who gingerly felt out his injuries. The Joxter had taken his time studying the paths the blood chose to follow down Snufkin’s cheeks last night, and how it stained his gloves, somehow blacker than black, and its metallic taste mixed with Snufkin’s soft spring flavors. Then he had set what he could and bandaged the rest.

Snufkin crept to the fire to soak up its feeble warmth, opposite the Joxter. He hunched down, still dark and sullen, unswollen eye glittering in the firelight as he watched his father. He could see purple and red bruising peeking from behind the Joxter’s scarf and hoped it hurt.

He'd never experienced anything like what had happened last night. Like a tornado touching down, carving a path of destruction, then dissipating with no warning. It hadn't even taken a minute, and Snufkin had been completely laid out. He touched the bump where the rock had hit. It was still tender, and the idea of running made Snufkin queasy, much as every nerve was telling him to do just that. Moominpappa had said the Joxter was unpredictable when riled, hadn’t he? Snufkin hadn’t thought that would apply to him, and he didn’t like how it felt to now know it did.

The Joxter woke and stretched, distracting Snufkin from his stormy thoughts. He tensed as the Joxter's gaze drifted lazily across the campsite and came to settle on Snufkin. He smiled.

Snufkin stared, stony faced.

“Sleep well?” At Snufkin's silence, the Joxter padded around the dying fire to sit beside him. His paws came up to examine Snufkin, who leaned warily away. “Oh, come now, no need to be like that. We can raid the park properly tomorrow. Or the day after. Or whenever.”

Snufkin bit his tongue on his actual concerns, which had nothing to do with Park Keepers anymore, unwilling to begin testing the waters so soon. The Joxter poked and prodded and relished every grit-toothed hiss that Snufkin tried to stifle before he declared him fine enough.

The rest of the day Snufkin felt blue, blue eyes on him, watching. Waiting. He tried to pretend everything was normal. He fished, and dozed through the constant warm ache in his body, and played carefully in his harmonica so as not to reopen his busted lip. He liked playing. It distracted him from thinking.

Once, he had interrupted the Joxter as he rambled on about something Snufkin didn’t care about. When the Joxter stopped talking, and his gaze had turned lazily toward him, Snufkin had to choke down any urge to flinch. He felt like a little mouse under the hungry eye of a cat. It knotted up his insides something dreadful, being at the mercy of the Joxter's moods. And he'd only had to do it once for Snufkin to feel this way. Snufkin hated it. It made him feel vulnerable, like signs, and… and _betrayed_. That was the word. Snufkin had never been betrayed before, but the Joxter hurt him and he wasn’t supposed to, especially not for being himself.

He crawled into his tent when the Joxter tried to join him beside the cooking fish, and huddled up under his sleeping bag. No more Park Keepers, no more Joxter. He'd leave come morning, hours before the Joxter normally woke. Let him have his tent and fishing tackle and whatever else Snufkin couldn't quietly pack away.

Snufkin slept and dreamed troubled dreams about cowering dogs with collars around their throats.


	2. Camping

Early the next morning, just as he planned, Snufkin awoke, tired from dreaming. He still hurt, but it wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t move. Creeping out of the tent, he cast about for the Joxter in the darkness and spotted the distinctive shape of his hat in the tree like some strange fruit. That was when he realized his own hat was gone. He took a moment to check the tent, but it wasn’t there, and he didn’t have time to question it or mourn. He could find another one or learn to do without. Now, he had to leave.

Snufkin moved silent as a shadow across the camp, only his harmonica, knife, and pipe in his pockets. He didn’t need a lamp even in the moonless pre-dawn, and felt his way through the tangled forest to the glowing lamps of the park. He did have  _ one  _ thing to do before he ran wherever the wind blew.

He climbed the fence and darted across shadowed paths to where the dogs had been chained before. One of the dogs was growling and upset, chain clanking as it jumped and danced. The other was gone. Where it should have been sat his hat, torn through with large gashes.

Snufkin pondered this curiosity a moment. Had he lost it here and never noticed? No, he was sure —

He barely brought his arm up in time when the dog leapt at him from the shadows, and he fell back with a shriek. Teeth sank into his flesh. The dog tossed his head, yanking Snufkin along the gravel like he wanted to rip him apart. Snufkin shoved and scratched and cried out desperately, torn between saving himself and an optimistic refusal to hurt the poor thing. He knew this wasn’t the dog’s doing, but the Park Keeper’s. It didn’t make the pain any less searing.

The instant the dog let go to get a better grip Snufkin kicked it in the side and scrambled away. Teeth snicked at his ear and agony spread across the side of his face.

The dog lunged once more. Snufkin hit the gravel face first and rolled over. Its lean, bony figure loomed, before suddenly it was gone, and a yelp sounded like an ice pick to Snufkin’s bloody ear.

The Joxter kicked the dog again, and Snufkin flinched. The Joxter’s eyes were bright in the lamplight, pale as moonlight, and his teeth were grit tightly around his pipe stem. As he shifted to land another kick, Snufkin flung himself at his legs.

“Stop it!”

They toppled over in a flailing tangle. There was the  _ crunch _ of cartilage. Snufkin let go with a wet gasp.

“The hell?” the Joxter asked once he realized what had happened. He climbed to his feet. Snufkin cradled his face as blood, and spit and tears dripped between his fingers. The dog lay there panting. They both looked pathetic. The other dog was howling, and the Park Keeper had once again made himself scarce.

What a mess.

The Joxter rubbed his face and walked over to Snufkin’s hat. He hesitated when he reached out to it, eyes on the abandoned collar and chain. It was too early for this nonsense.

He dropped the hat on Snufkin’s head. Snufkin reared back like he’d been burned, but before he could remember that he was  _ running _ , the Joxter grabbed his arm. The collar sat heavy in his pocket.

The Joxter dragged Snufkin out of the park. He couldn’t see very well now, stumbling and swaying worryingly. He  _ had _ taken a lot of hits to the head recently. The Joxter hoped this time it’d make him a little more compliant.

“What were you thinking? Grabbing me like that… leaving the camp… going back to the park...” he grumbled as he pulled Snufkin between the black boughs of trees, offset by a blue glow staining the horizon. Snufkin gave a thin cry as he was jerked over a fallen log and almost fell.

The Joxter threw Snufkin down beside the fire pit, making sure he knew in every gesture how disappointed the Joxter was in him. He chucked a stick at his hat, knocking it from its perch in the tree, and plopped it safely back on his head, then went to tend to Snufkin.  _ Again. _

He grabbed Snufkin’s lantern from where it was tied to the front of the tent and lit it. The sun would take its sweet time rising high enough to be useful, and Snufkin needed first aid sooner rather than later.

The dog’s attack had almost completely torn away the sleeve of Snufkin’s coat, and the gravel had done it no favors, either. Pale skin glowed tantalizingly from behind the blood-stained tears. The Joxter studied the galaxy of bruises that were splashed across Snufkin’s face and growing on his shoulders. Scrapes embedded with gravel were at the center of many of them. Snufkin’s eyes were dark little beetles behind the swelling, studying his every move warily. He wasn’t trying to speak, at least. The Joxter wasn’t even sure he could. There was a  _ lot _ of blood dripping out of his mouth, thick as honey.

The Joxter reached around Snufkin and began to unbutton his coat.

“If you’d been good, I’d be undressing you under better circumstances,” he purred into Snufkin’s uninjured ear. Snufkin made a small, distressed noise and his paws pressed weakly against the Joxter’s chest. It was such a tiny, futile gesture, it lit something inside the Joxter that had been bubbling lazily ever since he’d first seen Snufkin’s excited, shy face and felt the awkward hug of someone unfamiliar with such expressions. He was so fragile. Not physically, as he could clearly take more than his fair share of hits, but emotionally. It was exciting, like breaking someone else’s glass vase just because you could.

Experimentally, his tongue traced the shell of Snufkin’s ear and he nibbled on his lobe. Snufkin’s fingers twisted in his coat and the Joxter could feel his entire body lock up.

He tore Snufkin’s coat the rest of the way, sending buttons scattering into the underbrush like cockroaches. Snufkin jerked against him and gasped, though it devolved in a hacking cough. Blood spattered against the Joxter’s neck and face as he sat back, yanking Snufkin’s coat down and twisting it around his wrists.

The Joxter held the lantern close to Snufkin, assessing the damage. The new injuries on his face painted over the old ones in lurid splotches and swelling, until it resembled a mass of rotting fruit. His body wasn’t much better off, a larger canvas splashed with bruises and cuts, swollen in places and bloody in others. His arm had been torn to bloody ribbons punctuated by dark holes.The Joxter licked his teeth.

He’d thought he’d enjoy watching the dog attack Snufkin, and he had at first because it was ironic in a particularly poetic way, but seeing Snufkin shaken and dragged like a rabbit -- it sat more poorly with the Joxter than he’d cared to admit. It was so thoughtless, so quick, and it hadn’t taught Snufkin anything if the fact that he’d attacked the Joxter yet again indicated. Snufkin required a more delicate paw and time to learn.

Before that, though, the Joxter had to fix him up. He wasn’t at all gentle as he popped Snufkin’s shoulder back into place with a sickening sort of click, or when bandaging his arm, or when pulling out the front tooth that was dangling by its root. He was quick and efficient, and Snufkin was sobbing by the end, but everything was patched as best the Joxter could. One had to take care of the things they liked, after all.

He kissed Snufkin’s forehead and pulled him into his lap to keep him in place. After knocking off Snufkin’s hat, the Joxter buried his nose in Snufkin’s soft, brown hair. Under the stink of blood and dog, the Joxter could smell his curious floral musk, like summer not yet blown away by fall. Such a nice smell. He wanted to drown it out until only his own was left.

He fell asleep curled around Snufkin as he shivered in the morning chill. The Joxter was enjoying his time with Snufkin, if not in the way he'd expected.

 

 

He woke at the much more reasonable time of closer to noon, Snufkin limp in his arms. When he straightened, Snufkin snapped to attention, suggesting he’d not been asleep at all, just laying there, mind somewhere far away.

The Joxter let him go to stretch, and Snufkin sank back on his heels. The Joxter chose to ignore him until he was good and ready to deal with him, and felt that Snufkin would be relieved to be ignored for now. He wasn’t particularly fun like this, but they were in no hurry.

“You’re going to have to see to yourself,” he told Snufkin, climbing to his feet. “Mostly because I don’t care to. Though I guess you’re used to that by now.” He chuckled as he walked off, tugging his whiskers into order as he scented for anything he could eat.

Snufkin didn’t talk at all for several days, instead spending most of his time sleeping or sipping thin soups and water. Sometimes the Joxter would leave him and go harass the Park Keeper with his signs and dog (just the one, now, the Joxter mentioned to Snufkin who had frozen for the barest moment, soft-hearted as he was).

He was healing quickly, injuries going through a rainbow of ugly, muddled colors as the swelling went down and the bruises faded. Mumriks weren’t known for being easily hurt, as those who were never lasted long, as nature intended. Snufkin in particular had survived from childhood to now entirely alone and unscarred. His luck had to run out eventually, but the Joxter was pleased it had ended with him.

 

 

Days and nights crept past into autumn, and Snufkin looked like a rumpled little pile of dirty laundry, weak and tingly and doing the bare minimum to survive. He still hadn’t quite figured out what had happened, what had  _ changed _ . He tried not to think too much on it but couldn’t stop himself.

His coat hung limply from his shoulders, often slipping down and offering teasing glimpses of flesh that the Joxter had to creep toward and draw his tongue across. He loved the way Snufkin shuddered under his touch, such a viceral negative response, but kept himself from going too far, or getting too rough. Snufkin still needed to heal, still needed to think he  _ wouldn’t _ go that far. That he had some restraint. Ah, the Joxter did like a good joke.

Snufkin sat hunched over by the river, his coat in his lap and a look of concentration on his face as he affixed as many buttons as he could back onto it. His mind was elsewhere, though, planning his next escape. He couldn't handle any more of the Joxter.

The Joxter stalked him playfully, stopping once when Snufkin looked up, crawling closer the instant his eyes were turned away. The afternoon sun caught in the dips between Snufkin’s shoulder blades, hinted at his ribs in shadows beneath his thin, tattered undershirt. The bruises and scrapes were almost completely gone by now, leaving just freckles and pale skin behind. His spine ran like hills down to the frayed hem of his pants. Snufkin was completely unawares.

Gloved paws came to rest on his hip bones and Snufkin yelped, jerked forward. Before the Joxter could grab him, he fell into the river. Like a giant waterlily, his coat billowed, then was tugged downstream, Snufkin splashing after it. It slipped between his fingers and disappeared around the bend.

The Joxter sat back on his heels, an equally confused look on his face by the time Snufkin turned on him.

“What on earth was that for?!” he cried, voice cracking upward as he crossed his arms protectively in front of himself. Gooseflesh was ghosting over his skin already.

The Joxter held a paw out. “Come out of the water, Snufkin. You’ll catch your death of cold.” When Snufkin didn’t take it, he waggled it a bit. “Come on, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you into the water.”

Snufkin looked at the Joxter’s paw, then waded several feet upstream and dragged himself out. He was visibly shivering. With one last glare at the Joxter, Snufkin skulked toward the tent. Soon he leaned out and draped his pants, shirt, and socks over one of the support ropes.

The Joxter watched the tent, imagining Snufkin inside, naked and chilly under his sleeping bag. His skin would be even more pallid, nipples pert, nose and cheeks reddened with embarrassment and the cold. The air had that frosty autumn bite to it that stirred up the Joxter and made to dangerous to stay wet. Autumn was when he was most awake, preparing for winter and a long, long sleep with someone warm and soft. And autumn was when Snufkin traveled south.  Nobody would be expecting him anywhere for months.

The Joxter stretched and climbed to his feet.

He found Snufkin’s coat tangled up in a tree branch that had dipped into the water, and, with some careful finagling, was able to get it to shore. He rolled up his sleeves and gave it a quick dunk in clean water, then wrung it out and returned to camp. Carelessly, he tossed it over a branch to dry before he ducked into the tent.

Snufkin scrambled to the back of the tent, brown eyes narrowed in suspicion as the Joxter sprawled on the ground across the entrance. “Why are your sleeves wet?”

“I got your coat for you.”

Snufkin didn’t thank him for it, which the Joxter thought very rude because he  _ hadn’t _ meant to knock him into the water or make him lose it, and looked away. Self-consciously, he readjusted the sleeping bag pulled up almost to his chin. He’d been unwilling to climb in, refusing to wrap himself up nicely in a warm bag for his father to join him in. “Please go away.”

The Joxter curled one paw behind his head and hiked up his coat to slip the other into his pants. He made sure to get really settled in, just because Snufkin didn’t want him to. His feline eyes slipped half-closed as he watched Snufkin huddle in the back of the tent. Snufkin’s toes were peeking out from underneath the sleeping bag like white little grubs, and one shoulder was bare.

“Wh-what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?” the Joxter asked, paw working lazily. He imagined shoving the sleeping bag up, exposing thighs that the Joxter had no doubt nobody else had seen, kissing his way up between Snufkin’s legs as he shivered and cried. As a consummate dreamer, he had a very good imagination.

“Something very rude.”

“You’re free to leave.” He’d make him feel good, first, he decided. Introduce Snufkin to a warm mouth on his dick, get him hard and confused, slowly succumbing to the Joxter’s tongue and teeth. He licked his lips, ignoring the look of disgust on Snufkin’s face for the look of virginal pleasure in his mind as he groaned out a ’pappa’ or a ‘daddy’ just for the Joxter. Bedding a Snufkin was always fun, even if they tended to be a little unresponsive. It was a particularly forbidden sort of thing, and that was what mattered.

Snufkin readjusted the sleeping bag so he could pull at the bottom of the tent’s back wall without exposing anything. The Joxter scowled. He’d been hoping Snufkin would risk climbing over him or stay there and listen to him moan. Somewhat put off, he pulled his paw out of his pants and caught the edge of the sleeping bag.

“You said I could leave.”

“I changed my mind,” the Joxter purred, crawling closer and grabbing the sleeping bag with both paws. Snufkin yanked it back, struggling to keep hold of it and keep as much of himself covered as possible.

The Joxter kissed his healing nose, and he let go with a startled cry. The sleeping bag was tossed aside, and the Joxter caged Snufkin between his arms and legs. Snufkin froze, half-curled, as the Joxter looked him over. He looked better in real life, small and vulnerable, cast in the Joxter’s shadow. A blush was burning its way up his neck and across his cheeks. The Joxter’s eyes dipped lower, to the mound between Snufkin’s squeezed thighs, something rather different than expected hiding under a tangle of dark hair. He made a curious noise, already revising his fantasies.

He climbed off of Snufkin like nothing had happened and returned to the front of the tent to settle on the sleeping bag. After a moment more enjoying Snufkin’s nude body, a gessoed canvas ready to be painted on again, he roused himself and unbuttoned his own coat then shrugged it off. Underneath he wore a sweater, since he didn’t flee winter like Snufkin did. “This will work better than a sleeping bag.” He held it out, and Snufkin snatched it as though expecting a trap. As well he should, but the Joxter wasn’t in the mood to play with him any more. He had enough fuel to keep himself quite warm for now.

The coat was just a breath too large, and smelled of the Joxter’s heavy, dark tobacco and natural scent, but it covered Snufkin without encasing him, and that was what mattered. There was a slight jangle as he huddled up underneath it, and Snufkin slipped one paw out to investigate the pocket.

The Joxter rolled over, bright gaze shadowed by his hat. Snufkin pulled out the collar and chain, and his tooth. He stared at, then tossed the tooth out through the gap in the tent flaps. The Joxter’s gaze barely flickered. He could find it later, or just get another.

“Why…” he began, holding up the chain.

“Oh. I'd forgotten about that. For any disobedient puppies I might find.”

“Out here?” Snufkin asked, confused.

The Joxter smiled and nestled down to return to his needy, imaginary son, this time with warm, wet lips and a collar choking off Snufkin’s air.  Despite his travels, Snufkin really was an innocent, not realizing the Joxter’s real meaning. It made it more exciting that the Joxter would be the one to ruin him. “You never know,” he murmured.

Snufkin found a very interesting bit of grass to pull at uncomfortably, unaware of just where the Joxter's thoughts were, only that they were obscene and involved him. He hated how powerless he felt, like he was in a cement cell, the Joxter’s captive audience. He pulled the coat up around his ears and tried to block out the noises. The chill in the air made his face ache.


	3. The Forest

Snufkin crawled under the back of the tent. He let himself breathe only once he was outside, in the dark. The Joxter was still curled up on his sleeping bag across the entrance, sound asleep after -- after -- Snufkin shuddered and blamed the cold.

He felt sick and shaky, but couldn't afford to just lay around hoping the Joxter didn't hurt him. Carefully, quietly, he fetched what he could from the line just in front of the tent. A groan sent him scrambling away, chased by imaginary fingers reaching out to grab him and drag him inside. Snufkin ran silently into the forest, and only when he was too far to even see the tent did he check what he'd managed to grab. Shoes, socks, scarf -- it would do.

He tied his shoes tight, then picked an unfamiliar direction. Though the injuries had faded, he still felt them like scars carved into his bones, and they made every movement a reminder of what he was running from. He didn't understand the Joxter's actions. This was nothing like how Moominpappa described him, nothing like how he'd acted before.

Snufkin had even been the one to invite the Joxter with him, when he was passing near the Mymble’s village. Though the Joxter had been more distant than the Mymble when they’d met the first time, Snufkin was still very curious about him, this person who he somehow resembled so much despite having never known him.

They were cool toward each other, but that hadn’t been a bad thing. They hadn’t needed warmth between them to walk side-by-side in forests slowly being stained red with autumn, to play the harmonica and sing quiet songs, or lay under stars and listen to the night as the fire died down. If Snufkin wanted warmth, he had Moomin. He was just pleased to have someone more like himself, finally. It had been nice, not feeling quite so lonely without giving up his need to be alone. The Joxter had suggested the park, and it had been meant to be something fun.

Everything was _wrong_. Snufkin needed to get his thoughts in order.

He couldn’t bring himself to cry, though he knew it’d make him feel a little bit better. There were trees all around, and squirrels and Creeps, and he didn’t want them to see him like this. He ran, instead, through glades and forests, across deep, dark ravines and rushing waters, getting lost in the feel of the wind, the scents and sounds around him, and not himself, not the smells of the Joxter embedded in his coat, or the noises he’d been making, the things he said he wanted _._

Snufkin came to a stop near a roaring waterfall and put his hands on his knees, winded. He felt weak, dizzy. He supposed he’d not eaten as well as usual these past days, nausea at the Joxter’s presence overtaking him even when he could finally eat. He knew he should eat, but he still had no appetite.

He crept behind the waterfall, searching for some little alcove to curl up inside. The mist kicked up by the waterfall was already beading on him, fresh and cool. It was too loud back here to think, deafeningly so.

In the darkness and the damp, away from the prying eyes of the forest, Snufkin buried his face in his arms and cried.

 

 

  
  
Snufkin now had nothing but what little he had on his person, but he’d been like this before. Flash floods or harassment from drunks and the authorities often meant he went without. He spent the next days setting up small camps here and there, cold ones without blankets or soup pots or fires. They weren't safe. He wasn't safe. Not yet.

Despite all that, without the Joxter’s presence, the world seemed a little brighter. It would take a while before things returned to normal, but he was sure he could recover, though he found he couldn’t stop thinking about what the Joxter had done. The only place the Joxter could be found now was his mind, suggestive and dangerous and violent. He’d never come across anyone like that before.

He moved every day to a new place, trying to leave the Joxter behind somewhere. But every night, Snufkin slept poorly, jerked awake by nightmares of being held down and opened up, the Joxter’s smile full of teeth as he did things Snufkin didn’t understand but which _hurt_. He woke up feeling violated, suddenly aware of places in himself Snufkin had never particularly been aware of or cared about before.

Sometimes when he was near water, he took off his clothes to examine himself in the moonlight. Since nobody had ever shown interest like that before, he had to assume he wasn’t particularly attractive, bony and thin under his shapeless clothes, cheeks and nose marked from either years of sunlight or his genes. He found people like Snorkmaiden and Moomin prettier: soft, round, and nice-smelling like cooking and flowers. It must be something wrong with the Joxter to want him like that, if it was about appearance at all. Perhaps the Joxter simply saw the chance to be cruel, or enjoyed the taboo — Snufkin had no way of knowing. He just hated how the Joxter had looked at him.

The Joxter had eyes like claws, scratching all down his body when he’d ripped away the sleeping bag, when he licked Snufkin’s ear and wanted to undress him. It was hard to describe, being forced to acknowledge that he had a body that could, feasibly, have sex. Uncomfortable, invasive, and all too real in his dreams. The Joxter hadn’t actually raped him (a word Snufkin knew of but never thought he’d use), but Snufkin felt like, somehow, he had. He didn’t even know what that entailed, but it happened over and over until Snufkin escaped into the waking world, skin still aching with the impressions left by phantom hands, limbs all tangled up in his coat from his thrashing.

He looked himself over once more, trying to imagine how someone could want something even he didn’t really care about, came to no real answer, then scrubbed his skin red. Snufkin slipped his clothes back on and returned to camp in a copse of silent fir trees to try to sleep -- without dreams to conserve his energy in the nipping cold -- until the sun came up.

 

 

  
Snufkin awoke with a short, sharp gasp, as though he’d been unable to breathe for the past few minutes. He couldn’t move. Blearily, he tried to focus on the darkness above him to figure out the hour, heart in his throat as he choked down panic. It was just sleep paralysis, nothing more.

The Joxter was staring down at him. Just sleep paralysis, Snufkin reminded himself. You’re not really _awake_.

“Are you okay, dear?” the Joxter asked, fingers trailing across Snufkin’s cheek. “Your breathing is very shallow.”

Snufkin jerked his head away. Suddenly he could move. He shoved the Joxter who, much like the cats he so resembled, was absolutely immobile. After a moment more hitting and shoving, Snufkin slumped back. Something heavy, something very collar-like, was around his throat.  He yanked at it, loosening it enough to breath, too disoriented to figure out how to get it off.

Snufkin followed the chain from the collar to the Joxter’s hand, then lifted his gaze to the Joxter’s.

“Bad puppy,” he said simply, shaking the chain a little. “Making me hunt you down. Luckily, the quickest path to a wandering snuf is a straight line, or I’d have to have walked a little faster, and then I would be in a _very_ bad mood.”

Snufkin said nothing.

The Joxter slunk off of him, letting him sit up. His pack sat several feet away, everything folded up and tucked safely inside. Snufkin pulled at the collar once more, only to get a warning tug in return. He let his hands drop, for now.

When Snufkin settled, the Joxter cuddled up behind him and laced his fingers across Snufkin’s stomach, trapping him. He bumped his head against Snufkin and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of him, the smell and warmth. It had almost been work to find him, he was going to savor him.

“Why are you doing this?” Snufkin asked, finally. He was finding no answers on his own, and maybe if he knew why this was happening, he could just _talk_ the Joxter down. He didn't like feeling fear and disgust deep down inside. He didn't like that the _Joxter_ did this to him. Things weren't supposed to be like this.

The Joxter pressed himself tightly against Snufkin, fingers kneading his belly, a purr against his back. “It feels good to,” he murmured drowsily. Snufkin was so comfortable to wrap around. “And I do what feels good. That's all.”

 _That's all_. It seemed too simple.

“Was… was this planned from the start?”

“Hah!” the Joxter said, that sound conveying his entire opinion about _plans_. Plans were for other people. Silly people.

Snufkin made a noise. He knew this mentality intimately, because it was his own. He didn’t want to share that with the Joxter, either.

The Joxter kissed the back of Snufkin’s neck, then fell asleep like nothing had happened. Snufkin sat there, frozen. If he moved, the Joxter would be disturbed. If the Joxter was disturbed, he might hit him, or worse. As though to remind him of the danger, the Joxter’s hands had slipped down, pulled by gravity, and kneaded unconsciously at Snufkin's tense thighs.

He was going to be raped. Snufkin had to accept that, had to brace for it. He hoped it wasn’t as scary as he’d been led to believe talking to people on his travels, but he barely knew _what_ it was, only that it involved sex and was somehow worse than being berated or hit. The mere threat of it had wriggled into his subconscious like a worm, preying on some base fear he never knew he had, all tangled up with his fears of being held down, being trapped.

As the Joxter slept, Snufkin took to counting his breaths— short and sharp, not nearly enough to actually get oxygen— and thinking in circles. He’d tried to run. It had failed. All he knew how to do was run. What other recourse was there? With the Joxter’s arms around him, his exhalations warm and moist on Snufkin’s neck, and the collar around his neck, Snufkin knew there wasn’t any. But acceptance of that felt too much like agreement.

 

 

 

By the time the Joxter woke up, Snufkin had gotten the collar off and was trying with the utmost care to disentangle himself from his father.

“Whatever are you doing, dear?” The Joxter asked, blinking owlishly at Snufkin who lay half on the ground.

“Leaving,” Snufkin said, and his voice hardly shook.

“Not very well, I’m afraid.” The Joxter caught his coat and yanked him back. A small scuffle ensued, ended by a few, sharp blows.

Snufkin lay there panting, face bloodied, as the Joxter affixed the collar around his throat again. He sat on Snufkin’s belly, holding him down, and contemplated his face. Snufkin’s teeth were flashes of white in blood and spit as he swallowed down pained gulps of air.

The Joxter’s gloved fingers came to rest on Snufkin’s lips. Snufkin held his breath.

“You threw away my tooth.”

Snufkin closed his mouth tightly, like that could do anything to stop him.

“I think you’re due another lesson, dear.”

The Joxter jammed a knee into Snufkin’s chest as he pulled out his knife, then climbed off of Snufkin.

“Please, Joxter — please don’t,” Snufkin gasped, immediately trying to get away. He didn’t know quite what the Joxter had planned, only that it wouldn’t be good for him. The Joxter was cruel and violent, and Snufkin couldn’t understand how nobody had known. How insidiously he must have kept it hidden. _Things weren’t supposed to be like this_. They weren’t, they weren’t —

A paw wrapped around his jaw, and Snufkin was yanked back against the Joxter’s chest. The Joxter then told Snufkin to stay very still. That was the only warning Snufkin got before the knife tip was jammed into his gum line and he was screaming as the Joxter leveraged out another tooth.

“Oh, do hush,” the Joxter chided as he repositioned the knife and wiggled it back and forth. In some nightmarish parody of concern, he pressed a whiskery kiss against Snufkin’s temple. “You’re doing wonderfully,” he murmured above the choked sobs.

Snufkin’s tooth came loose with a sickening, grinding tear that resounded inside of his head.

The Joxter pulled it out entirely, snapping the remaining root, and let Snufkin fall to the ground as he examined the tooth. It was a bone-white premolar coated in blood and spit. The Joxter slipped it into his pocket.

“Every time you try to run, I’ll pull out another tooth,” he informed Snufkin, holding up two fingers. Two attempts. Two teeth already gone.

Snufkin pressed his paws to his face and curled up into a pitiful little ball. The Joxter patted his head.


End file.
